Quotes About Loss

If the heart was fragile, like a porcelain cup, and a great loss shattered it, all the time and kindness in the world couldn't hide the ugly cracks. Once the precious liquid of love had seeped away, you were left dry. Dry and empty. Echoing

She was a child robbed of her beloved sea and shore

When bones and flesh have finished their business together, we lay them carefully, in positions they're willing to keep, and cover them over. Their eyes and ours won't meet anymore. We hope.

Our general was elsewhere, but we drowned. While he rested, he shipped us home with the bulk of? his spoils that had weighed his army down. The thrashing storm that caught us cracked the hulls and made us offerings to the sea floor?-- a rain of statues, gold, and men.

Life is a series of sudden disappearances, leave-takings without the proper goodbyes.

You were going to travel for love, without shoes, or cloak, or common sense. This is one of the things a woman can do when her lover leaves her. It's hard on the feet perhaps, but staying at home is hard on the heart.

A vampire is a flexible metaphor. You know, death, sex, change, stagnation, loss of self, loss of agency, having to keep one's real self secret, the possibility of something lasting forever: love, hate, grief.

I'm losing what i don't deserve..

Jag vill inte dö, jag vill leva, men om hon dör finns det ingen plats för mig i den här världen.

We chase after ghosts and spirits and are left holding only memories and dreams. It's not that we want what we can't have; it's that we've held all we could want and then had to watch it slip away.

Come! our world is done: For all the witchery of the world is fled, And lost all wanton wisdom long since won.

For the living, death is thievery.

For women, marriages foreclosed often resulted in an accumulation of booty; for men, these failed projects of implausible optimism were more likely to manifest themselves in material lack. It was hard to resist the metaphorical impression that women got to keep the past itself, whereas men were simply robbed of it.

Home is precisely what Kevin has taken from me.

This was food without you. Our loft, rich with the international booty of baskets and carvings, took on the tacky, cluttered aspect of an import outlet: This was our home without you. Objects had never seemed so inert, so pugnaciously incompensatory. Your remnants mocked me: the jump rope limp on its hook; the dirty socks, stiff, caricatured deflations of your size eleven feet.

I want to let all this go when it still hurts to let it go. When we can still feel a sense of loss. When what we're losing is still whole, and not corrupted, and diminished, and made dreadfully sad.

Mourning the death of strangers is a blunted butter knife experience, bearing no resemblance to the slicing, machete-like bereavement of losing someone you know.

Your honeybunch may not be able to make you feel all warm and gooey inside anymore," Deacon said. "But the ability to fuck you up, well--it's the last magic power to go.

Jayne was left an only child after her younger sister committed suicide in adolescence (a tragedy, yes, but one whose psychic statute of limitations might have run out by now - not that you'd get his wife to relinquish the trauma , which seemed to confer the special-protection status of landmark architecture.

Though surely to avoid attachments for fear of loss is to avoid life.

The unions are the first feeble effort to conquer the industrial jungle for democratic life. They may not succeed, but if they don't their failure will be a tragedy for civilization, a loss of cooperative effort, a baulking of energy, and the fixing in American life of a class-structure.

The song is languid and speaks of love and loneliness and loss. Why does love seem to go with the sad things?

I am Elaine dughter of Barnard of Ascolat. Motherless. Sisterless. I sing these words to you now, because the point of light grows smaller ever smaller now, ever more distant now. And with this song, I pray I may push back the tides of war and death. So, I sing these words that this light, this tiny ray of light and hope may live on. I dare not hope that I may live on too.

The pain of lost love is as total, as self-obliterating an emotion as the initial ecstasy.